


Pilgrim's Progress

by RoyalHeather



Series: before there was red vs. blue there was project freelancer [17]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Afterlife, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5246618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/RoyalHeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I may continue this. I might not. We'll see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrim's Progress

“He’s over there!” South screams. “He has the AI, not me, don’t touch me –”

North barely has time to understand that before blistering pain punches through his spine. Theta is shouting in alarm, North is laying on the ground and he can’t move, he can’t think, he can’t breathe –  _NO!_ yells Theta, sobbing, _please don’t, don’t don’t don’t, I don’t want to go –_

 _Hey,_ manages North, with what feels like the last conscious effort he has. _Hey, it’s gonna be all right…_

He expected the pain to increase, but it seems to be lessening instead.  In fact, _everything_ is lessening, sense and feeling and Theta’s voice in his head…

He is alone.

It is neither dark nor light. There is no sound.

For a brief second he realizes that he feels _nothing,_ he has no sense of his self in space, he is merely a disembodied thought. But before the panic can set in, a sensation of _something_ returns, a kind of physical grounding. Yes, there is a definite sense that he _exists_ , his thoughts reside somewhere, and that somewhere is distinct from elsewhere…

 It is very much light now, a kind of soft pearly glow filtering in. North instinctively draws in a breath – oh, he can breathe, that must mean he has lungs and a throat and a body. Gradually other parts of his body are coming back to awareness as well, hands and feet and stomach.

He’s lying on his back on a surface that’s firm and only slightly yielding, and with that knowledge of where he is physically suddenly everything comes back. He’s North, he exists, he can feel every muscle and bone in his body and his headspace is strangely empty, where’s Theta, where’d he go –

From somewhere above him and to the side comes a startled exclamation. “…North?” says someone, impossibly familiar. “Holy shit –”

North opens his eyes and sits up (aware in the back of his mind that his body feels _different,_ better, like the accumulated exhaustion of his twenty-eight years has been stripped away). York is approaching him in a kind of half-eager, half-wary stride; something about his face looks very different to North, though he can’t quite put his finger on it, and then he realizes – York has both eyes.

“York?” says North incredulously.

“Yeah! Yeah it’s me, it’s really me.” York approaches, holding out a hand apprehensively. North reaches up and grasps it; York’s hand tightens on North’s, and then his expression clears and he yanks North to his feet and into a bear hug. “Holy shit dude, it’s really you –”

North chuckles and thumps York on the back, wrapping his other arm across the top of York’s shoulders. As he stood, his surroundings somehow slid into focus – they’re standing in a meadow, pleasant and nondescript, with a few clusters of pale boulders. That pearly haze has resolved itself into some kind of fog, so that North can’t see more than a few yards into the distance though. The light is even, soft, and bright, the grass at their feet dotted with white flowers. A breeze ruffles North’s hair, carrying with it the faint scent of greenery.

York is hanging onto him very tightly, North realizes.

“Hey, man,” he says. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” says York, pulling back with his hands on North’s biceps. “Yeah, I’ve just – it’s just been a while –”

This confuses North, because if this is a dream (as he’s sure it is) then York didn’t exist until North came here. “Since you left PFL?” says North. “I know, man, it’s been ages –”

“What?” says York. “No. Since I died.”

North stares at him.

“Yeah, I know,” says York. “Took me a while to catch on at first –”

“What do you mean, _died,_ ” says North.

“I mean fucking kicked the bucket. Dead. Deceased. Bit the dust, sleeping with the fishes, cashed in my chips –”

“I can’t be dead,” says North automatically.  But he remembers Maine chasing them, and South shouting, blinding pain in his back and Theta screaming in terror – “ _No.”_

“I know,” says York, who’s holding onto North in a way that seems eminently cautionary. “I know, I didn’t want to think it either –”

“They’re still down there!” roars North, throwing York off and pointing emphatically _somewhere._ “South and Theta are still down there and the fucking _Meta_ is coming after them –”

York just looks at him sadly, and North starts pacing an outward circle, where the hell is he, is there a way out, a gate or a door or something –

“North.”

It’s just the same damn grass and rocks and pearly fog, and North growls in frustration. Maybe he can wake himself up, he thinks, and slaps himself hard in the face –

“North!”

York has run over and is grabbing at his arms again; North snarls and attempts to free himself. “York, I swear to God –”

“Just calm down –”

“Get the hell off of me –”

North’s got the height advantage but York is all compact muscle, and he’s got a lower center of gravity.  When York comes at North again, North aims a punch at him but York just grabs his arm and throws his full weight into it, tackling North to the ground. North huffs angrily at the impact, South and Theta are in danger _right now_ , he needs to get to them, he needs to protect them –

 “North, North, enough!” shouts York, at this point half-straddling North and pushing him into the ground.  North yells inarticulately and tries to throw York off, but York somehow manages to grab his arms and pin them against North’s chest. “It’s not going to help –”

“How do you know?” North shoves York off and lunges to his feet, but before he can stand fully York’s grabbed his legs and downed him again. North grunts and kicks out behind him (it connects, he can hear York’s startled exclamation), but York’s somehow clambered on top of North's back and is pinning him again. North growls and attempts to push himself up. “Get – off –”

York is like a sack of cement. “North, listen to me,” he says, panting. “You can’t go back and help them, I know, I tried –”

Face pressed into the ground, grass tickling his nostrils, North grunts and pushes his hands against the ground for purchase, fingernails digging into the turf. “Bullshit –”

“North, it’s – it’s pointless,” says York, voice breaking, and it’s that more than anything else that shuts North down. “I’ve been trying…”

York’s got one hand on North’s wrist, pinning it to the grass, and his other arm is wrapped around North’s neck. North can feel his weight, heavy and human, on his back and shoulders, and York’s unsteady breathing tickles his ear.

“Get off me,” says North.

York rolls off and North sits up, brushing grass off his front. “I’m not dead,” he says. “I’m in a coma, this is a dream. You’re not real.”

“Yeah, you say that,” laughs York, strangely bitter, pushing himself up. “You’ll know when you meet people who aren’t real.”

“What the hell does that mean?” demands North.

“I’m York, okay?” says York. “Agent New York, Foxtrot Twelve, Anthony Elahi, professional lockpicker, partnered with AI program Delta –”

“How’d you die?”

York sighs, rubbing his face in his hand. “Fucking Wyoming,” he says. “I was helping Tex break in to his base to get him and him or one of his goonies got me on my damn blind side…”

“And… and Delta?”

York just _looks_ at him, deep circles under his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” says North.  

“He’s not dead,” says York. “He’d be here if he was. The Meta’s got him, and he’s – he’s…”

“York, AI don’t die, they get erased,” says North gently. “They just stop existing –”

“Don’t say that,” hisses York, fists clenching. “You don’t know a thing about it –”

“Okay, okay.” As strange as everything else has been, this North knows, this dynamic between the two of them. “All right.”

York scrubs his hands through his hair, rests his chin on his knees. “So, if we’re dead,” says North – not that he really believes they are, but if they _were,_ hypothetically – “does that mean this is heaven, or…?”

York shakes his head emphatically. “I’ve been here maybe… I can’t tell. Maybe a couple weeks? There’s not really night, it just kind of gets dim. But I’ve been here long enough to explore around, and there’s – there’s more things over there.” He waves his arm off behind him, and North has no idea how he can tell direction in the midst of this featureless fog. “There’s kind of a wood or forest or something, and then behind them you can see mountains, there’s a city on top, it glows… I think that’s It. Whatever It is.”

“What did you mean when you said I’ll meet people who aren’t real?” asks North cautiously.

York covers his eyes with a shaking hand. “I keep… I keep seeing shapes, and faces, in the fog, and I think they’re there and then…” His shoulders are trembling as well. “I know I’m supposed to go to the City but I keep thinking if I stay here, maybe I can meet someone real…”

This might very well be false, this might be all happening in North’s head, but at the end of the day it’s York in distress and North refuse to let any iteration of that exist. “Hey,” he says, putting a hand on York’s shoulder. “I’m here. I’m real.”

York seizes North and pulls him into another hug, his face crushed against North’s neck, their legs tangled awkwardly together. North pats him on the back. “We’re not dead,” says North.

“Yes, we are,” says York, muffled.

“Nope,” says North. “We’re still here. We’re talking to each other. And I’ll be damned if this is the end of our story.”


End file.
